I'm a sociopath (sweet serialkiller on a warpath)
by ibuzoo
Summary: She can see droplets of blood clinging in Rosier's dark hair, can see him taking his handkerchief to dab the blood off of his face and Tom doesn't even bother to clean himself up, snarls at Greyback to drive them home. The shriek, she grasps later, was her own.


**I'm a sociopath (sweet serialkiller on a warpath)**

**Prompt: **Weapon

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Modern AU / Organised Crime AU / Killer AU

**Word count: **1754

**Summary: **She can see droplets of blood clinging in Rosier's dark hair, can see him taking his handkerchief to dab the blood off of his face and Tom doesn't even bother to clean himself up, snarls at Greyback to drive them home.

The shriek, she grasps later, was her own.

**A/N:** I love to write Tom and the Death Eaters as a modern organised crime organisation and it's so much fun to find ways and backdoors to let Hermione find her part in it too. Also the last few prompts were kinda innocent so let's go to the darker side again.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**o.**

Death comes to see her, a girl in a white dress, barefoot, giggling, long silky locks, wide blown eyes and blood on her palms. "We are one," she whispers but Hermione tosses around, shuts her mind and sleeps.

**i.**

The Hog's Head is a shady bar with old music boxes staggered side by side, a counter full of alcoholic bottles reaching from cheap whisky down to expensive scotches and its customers mirror the dirt on the walls, old men with gold teeth and too many thugs who try to impress some lightly clad ladies with their guns and euro bank notes that shimmer in different colours from blue to orange to green and yellow.

Some old blues song echoes from the wooden walls and Hermione glances around, memorises all of the fellows with their razor sharp smirks and their greedy eyes that room over her body and when her hand squeezes Tom's just a tad stronger than before, she calls it self protection, nothing more.

Rosier is already sitting at the far end, a glass dangling lazily from his fingers and the amber liquid moves in circular waves, sways with every word that drawls out of his elegant lips and Hermione sees why Tom sent him, because he fits perfectly, almost looks like a regular with his backcombed hair and Vivienne Westwood three-piece suits in biting lavender with a little handkerchief sticking out of his chest pocket that matches the colour of his socks and tie.

Tom releases her hand as soon as they reach the table where a man is already sitting opposites Rosier - a gloomy old contemporary with white hair and even whiter teeth that inevitably remind Hermione at a set of piano keys - and they exchange some words, trivialities really, about some deal and money, but Tom doesn't sit down so she takes a step back, feels Greyback's present looming in the background, waits.

It doesn't last long and when it happens, it's almost too fast to see anything - but she does.

There's a peak of something metallic that reflects the amber liquid barely before it's pointed at Tom, racing towards him and she thanks God that his reflexes are better than hers because he dodges, kicks the stool near the table to bring distance between the men.

Rosier draws his gun a second later, doesn't even warn the guy and she can see the finger around the trigger, sees him pressing it in slow motion and the blood is already splashing on her fawn Burberry coat, on her skin and there's a scream, a high-pitched shriek before someone grabs her arm and yanks her violently out of the room, into a car, dark leather on her back. Her heart is racing and she waits, counts seconds, minutes until finally the other door opens and Tom sits beside her again, Rosier in front on the passenger seat.

She can see droplets of blood clinging in Rosier's dark hair, can see him taking his handkerchief to dab the blood off of his face and Tom doesn't even bother to clean himself up, snarls at Greyback to drive them home.

The shriek, she grasps later, was her own.

**ii.**

Death visits her again that night but Hermione doesn't want to see, doesn't listen, presses the sheets over her head and waits until Tom's even breathes sing her to sleep.

_(her hands are clean, but it feels wrong)_

**iii.**

She climbs into the car, a shining black Jeep Grand Cherokee with tainted car windows and gaudy rims that reflect the sunlight bright on the shining surface, and she sinks down on the leather, leans her head against the cold surface and looks at the man beside her, shaved off sides but hair backcombed on the top, dark brown with lighter streaks but his eyes are even colder as Tom's, reflect the blue of northern ice seas.

"We need to make a stop," he grunts between gritted teeth and Hermione wonders not for the first time in all these years why he dislikes her so much, loathes her almost, but she nods, answers with the causality of a life along their sides, „Sure."

They don't speak because they really don't have anything to share with each other besides their love for Tom and casual discussions about different subjects - both graduating in Medicine - but most of the time he sees her more as a bothersome hobby of Tom and she ignores his presence all along.

So they chose to stay silent over the ride.

It takes them longer as she thinks and sure enough when they finally arrive at the dilapidated neighbourhood, shanties with bashed in windows, decayed front yards and people, children really, sitting on the doorsteps flipping butterfly knives while some rap song plays to the rhythm of drums out of some huge ghetto blaster - Rabastan pulls over and parks, nearly steamrolls one of the strays. _(on purpose she supposes)_

He leaves her in the car without another word and approaches one of the boys, yanks at his collar and slaps him on the head once, twice until the rat finally gives him answer but Hermione can't understand a word, the Jeep doesn't let any sound trough the thick darkened windows.

They start to fight, four against one, knives drawn, even a gun and when did they multiply? Her heart beats faster, the pulse quickens and she can taste the fear on the back of her tongue, bitter and heavy but she can't think, sees the danger bright and red in front of her but the moment she presses the handle down Rabastan kicks out, lounges, pushes really and the gun is in his hand, black leather gloves hard around the trigger. He shoots without hesitation, right trough the kneecap, blood splattering on stone, on fine italian leather and there's a shriek, a shout, a cry - then silence.

Rabastan enters the car soon after without any expression and a packet of money in his coat pockets.

They never talk about.

She never tells Tom.

**iv.**

The little girl sings a song that night, whispers "We're one" over and over again and Hermione digs her hands in her hair, yanks at it, whispers _no, no we're not, go away, leave me alone, go_ but the song doesn't stop until morning comes.

The melody however, remains.

_(her hands are smooth, but it feels wrong)_

**v.**

They get chased trough the streets, narrow cart ways out of London and Abraxas floors the accelerator, speeds the car to 100 miles per hour and Hermione buries her hands in the seat, digs them in the leather while her head bumps left and right, a dizzy feeling on her conscious.

Abraxas curses, takes a sharp shift to the left and there it is waiting, the shiny red car congesting the street, so he brakes hard, stops. Hermione feels the seatbelt cutting into the sensitive flesh of her neck and she drops back into the seat, heart racing in a furious drum, blood rushing trough her head.

He doesn't waste a minute, unbuckles the seatbelt, leans towards her and grabs right between her legs, under the seat, searching for something while his short blonde hair tickles on Hermione's bare knees and she bites her lips while Abraxas raises up again, releases the safety catch of an effulgent silver gun and he leaves the car a second later.

His aim is steady and safe, right on the middle of the foreigner's windscreen, and she sees the way he takes a breath, calms himself while the engine of the red car howls, the lights flicker on, he shoots - _once, twice, threefold_ - the glasses breaks, shatters in a million pieces and Abraxas doesn't stop, empties the whole magazine.

She doesn't even shriek anymore but when he enters the car she can't look at him either.

**vi.**

Her head is buried in the crook of Tom's neck and she noses his aftershave, his shower gel, the fresh detergent he always uses and she feels calm, safe, ignores the whispers in her head that tell her she's the same, _the same, the same._

_(her hands are pure, but it feels wrong)_

**vii.**

She's in the car, again, nearside and looks out the window, watches how tiny droplets pearl off the car window and rush towards the floor, the furious pelting against the car roof reminds her of some popular pop song and she starts to hum the melody under her breath, nods her head in the timing of the beat.

It's utter silent in the car - cold too - and she wonders why Tom always takes the car key with him, why he can't let the engine run so she can listen to the radio or warm herself up at least - but she can't come up with an answer because suddenly the doors of the depot rip open. A cheap lightbulb illuminates the fight before her eyes dimly, the dirty orange and yellow reflecting on some silver surface and she can recognise Tom, detects his far too expensive coat that's soaked in rain - or is it something else? - but she can't see what's happening because her head is rushing again, the blood pumping in her veins, and everything goes blank besides _Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom._

She sees the stricken figure of Greyback dragging himself over to the scene, sees the man kicking him off while Tom clutches at his shoulder, tries to disarm the man but there's no chance, the object in his hands sliding like butter trough Greyback's leg, lounging for Tom and Hermione's pulse quickens again, throbs almost painfully against her neck and her hands open the glovebox, too fast, almost ripping it off, fingers encompassing around the stock of a gun, black and shiny, and it feels heavy, ponderous but it feels right, and good and _glorious_ and she stumbles out of the car, takes some quick steps and aims, trembles, the rain pelting furiously on her head, her finger solid around the trigger and she shoots, again, again.

The man collapses to the ground and Tom turns his head, eyes blown wide with amazement.

She bridles up and closes her eyes while the rain washes the blood away.

**viii.**

Death comes again that night, sits on the windowsill with dangling feet and wild hair and Hermione recognises herself, head resting on Tom's chest and she listens to his breaths, his pulse, when she whispers, steady, honest, "We are one, we're the same."

_(her hands are red and it feels right)_


End file.
